


Radiance, Hope, Renewal

by madandimpossible



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23644864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madandimpossible/pseuds/madandimpossible
Summary: Set Post-Film. Love isn't something you "expect" to happen. It just happens. We're just along for the ride. Or - alternatively - Paterson finding love again with you.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	Radiance, Hope, Renewal

**Author's Note:**

> I have discovered that writing character x reader fics, something I thought I would never do, is incredibly therapeutic for me. So. Here we go.
> 
> I tried to make it introspective and cute and then smutty because i am...a degenerate. LOL. and then more cute! 
> 
> The first 3 sections are Paterson so I could set the stage lol. The rest is reader-POV.

_All the complicated details  
of the attiring and  
the disattiring are completed!  
A liquid moon  
moves gently among  
the long branches.  
Thus having prepared their buds  
against a sure winter  
the wise trees  
stand sleeping in the cold._

_( **Winter Trees** \- William Carlos William)_

Paterson didn’t think about life without Laura. Simply because it didn’t seem possible. It would always be the three of them – him, her, and Marvin. Slowly, though, like a melting winter frost - Laura began to fade.

This is not to say that Laura fell out of love with him. Paterson thinks she’ll always love him in some way.

When she had claimed that one of her songs had gone ‘ _viral’ –_ Patterson wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but she was smiling, so he assumed it was good. She began making a little money with her music. She asked him for a microphone to plug into her laptop so she could record higher quality music.

Their electric bill almost got shut off that month, but Laura was bright-eyed and excited.

That day, with Laura practicing above him, Paterson wrote a poem called ‘Radio Waves’.

A small independent music blogger came to their house for an interview. Marvin sat on Laura’s lap for the entirety of it. Patterson stood in the hallway, his arms crossed, leaning against the wall as his wife talked about her music. The internet, she told him when the article released, _loved_ Marvin.

Her next song was about Marvin, summertime, peach tea, and lost leather-bound journals. It wasn’t as successful as her first song, but she wasn’t deterred.

Patterson wrote a poem called, ‘Industry.’

She goes to Nashville without him to record her first real album. It’s not like she didn’t want him to come, but someone had to watch Marvin, and _besides_ – he couldn’t take the time off of work. That was the first fracture, he thinks, as their lives began to move in separate directions.

Because fourth months after Nashville, she went to Chicago. She was there for 3 weeks.

Two months after Chicago, she went to New York City. She began to commute from Patterson to New York every other weekend. She _loved_ the city. She loved Brooklyn, especially. She often spoke about moving there but Paterson knew there was no way they could afford that. 

Soon – it was mostly just him and Marvin at the house. It got lonely, but he made do. He missed her company, and her cupcakes, but she was out there living her dream. He wasn’t going to stop her.

Then, one day, the world fell from beneath his feet. Patterson was sitting at the kitchen table, eating the sandwich she made, when she came into the room with her arms wrapped around her middle.

“I think we should get a divorce.”

Paterson didn’t write any poems that day.

And he discovered what a world without Laura felt like.

X

_I'm Nobody! Who are you?  
Are you – Nobody – too?  
Then there's a pair of us!  
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!_

_How dreary – to be – Somebody!  
How public – like a Frog –  
To tell one's name - the livelong June –  
To an admiring Bog!  
( **I'm nobody! Who are you?** – Emily Dickenson) _

Paterson’s routine doesn’t change much after Laura’s gone and moved to Brooklyn with her guitar and Marvin and all her music. She calls ever-so-often just to check in. Make sure he’s still alive, he guesses.

He gets up early. He makes his own lunch and tucks it into his lunchbox. He drives the bus, he listens to the stories and snippets of conversation, and at the end of the day he heads down to see Doc and his friends.

His notebook remains blank throughout the months of October, November, December and all the way into March. The spring blossoms begin to bud on the trees, the daffodils bloom white and yellow on sidewalks and the air fills with pollen that makes his throat scratch and his eyes water.

The poems still bubble up inside his head. 

‘ _Red light stopping my heart’s flow. I wish I knew how to not miss you.’_

_‘Lonely nights are easier to swallow when you can hear the sound of the ceiling fan turning. It sounds like someone else is breathing.’_

He just doesn’t write them down.

He starts going to the movies on his own. Well, of course it’s on his own. _He’s_ on his own. The only downside is that if he gets up to use the bathroom, no one is there to fill him in on what he missed when he gets back.

A café opens up and the outdoor patio is nice enough to sit outside on during the warmer months. He sits there, drinks coffee and listens to the world around him. He doesn’t feel like participating. He just wants to exist. To **be**.

A month after opening, they have open mic night at the café on Tuesdays.

He always attends even though it causes the words to try and spring to life in the corner of his mind.

He watches as hopeful comedians, and powerful slam-poets, and musicians all take their turn on the stage. He admires their bravery. He doesn’t envy them. After a time, everyone develops a camaraderie with another. There’s Becca, who’s got a sweet voice and plays slow melodies on the piano. There’s Amos, who’s poems are always focused on the community and the injustices of the world. Bill has stage fright and only manages to crack out one or two jokes before bowing off the stage with his face-flushed and sweating bullets.

Paterson likes to sit in a corner seat, tucked away from everything, but still able to see and hear while he sips his drink and wipes away the milk foam from his upper lip.

So, it’s only natural that he notices someone new.

That he notices **_you_**.

X

_And then the day came,_

_when the risk_

_to remain tight_

_in a bud_

_was more painful_

_than the risk_

_it took_

_to blossom._

_( **Risk** \- _ _Anais Nin)_

The poems won’t live inside him anymore. They refuse. His internal monologue is an endless stream of free-form poetry, of sonnets, of sestinas and even something that might pass as a song lyric.

It’s a blustery day in April when he sits inside the café, listening to Becca play piano, and lets the words pour out.

They drench across the page. Grief, longing, loneliness – those are the first to take shape and form. The ink smudges as he turns the page, scratching away in the low, intimate light. Then, hope. New life. Renewal. He writes until his hand is sore.

This process repeats for the next week. He writes on his lunch break, at home, before work. Just like before. The titles span and vary – _‘Purge’, ‘Hopeless Gum Wrapper’, ‘My Dearest’, ‘I wish I loved you less’, ‘Hope and Springtime,’ ‘Cherry Blossom Sunrise’, ‘Echoes of Sunshine’, ‘The Plight of Apollo’._

On and on it goes until the following Tuesday. He’s finishing a poem he started on his lunch break when someone taps the microphone to announce the next performance.

He looks up, ‘ _It’s her.’_

His large hand covers the page, even though no one is looking, and no one can read it from her.

She cradles the microphone between her hands – as he’s seen her do a hundred times. As if she’s holding it to tell it a secret. Her voice wavers a little as she begins.

The rest of the world falls away as she paints with her words, vivid imagery of mossy undergrowth, and willow trees dipping their leaves into clear water, the scent of homemade bread and the touch of sunlight on your skin.

Her poems are soft. They remind him of delicate lacework fabric.

It stirs something. He doesn’t know _what_ it is.

Just something.

By June, Paterson works up the nerve to say hello.

He writes a poem and calls it ‘Radiance’.

She starts to sit with him, when it’s not her turn on stage, and a friendship begins to blossom. It is tender and sweet – not unlike her poetry, he thinks.

Before the summer ends, she invites him to a picnic and Paterson goes home, the sky a hazy pink, and the taste of strawberries on his lips.

He writes two poems that night, one named ‘Tuesday’s and Milk’ and the other, ‘Saturday’s and Honey’.

X

_If I can stop one heart from breaking,_

_I shall not live in vain;_

_If I can ease one life the aching,_

_Or cool one pain,_

_Or help one fainting robin_

_Unto his nest again,_

_I shall not live in vain._

_(_ **If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking** – Emily Dickenson) ****  
  


You never asked Paterson why he didn’t go on stage.

You figured there were plenty of people who attended the open mic for the sake of getting out of the house and seeing something other than a movie.

After all, Bill’s standup was improving. He could get through ten minutes without turning green. Becca started writing a new song and it was proving to be a tear-jerker. Amos, on the other hand, had slowed down with his visits – he was busy, he said, organizing for a general strike with his union. Overall, though, you and your friends were turning into quite the little crew.

You walked along the sidewalk with Paterson beside you, ice cream cone in your hand, as you talked about your day.

He listened in that shy, open way of his.

It warmed your heart each time you looked at him.

Even the most mundane of details seemed to enrapture him.

“Do you think you’ll move back after the school year?” He asked, the wind tousling his dark hair. He was referencing to the fact that you had only moved to Jersey to help your mother. At first, you had every intention of staying for the year to help her with grandma…but now? You weren’t sure if those plans were going to remain.

You shook your head, “I don’t know. I mean, I like it here. I feel like…” You sighed, licking ice cream from your knuckle, “I dunno. I’m making a difference.”

“I think you are.” Paterson said. His voice was soft and earnest.

“Thank you.” Your nose crinkled as you smiled, and he smiled back – all dimples and freckles and adorable crooked teeth.

You sat together on the bench overlooking the waterfall. The robins chirped and sang overhead, the air pleasant, and the water cast a small rainbow into the air. You can feel the thin fabric of his windbreaker brushing against your bare arm with warm ruffling breeze.

“It’s so tranquil in this spot.” You said with a content little sigh.

“There was this girl who told me a poem once…she called it waterfall. But it was water – space – fall. Like that. I still remember the first few lines.”

“Oh yeah?” You quirked your eyebrow up. Your fingers were sticky from the ice cream cone, and you tried – in vain – to wipe them off on your shorts. _‘Ice cream on her fingertips’,_ you say to yourself, the spiderwebs of a poem connecting together in the network of your mind.

He recited what he could recall of the poem. Another burst of affection shoots through you.

Paterson is, you decide, your favorite person. He’s just easy to be around. Easy to talk to. Even on your most anxious nights at the open mic, he never failed to soothe you just by being present. He’s not overly forthcoming about his life – but you know enough, and you respect his desire for privacy to avoid gossip and snooping. Paterson is just _good_. He’s a good guy and a good friend. You cherish him, even in these small moments, when it’s just you and the open world full of beauty and inspiration.

You fall into a companionable silence with the robins singing and the rush of the waterfall.

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?” He asked, voice softly carried by the wind.

Your face goes hot, and you glance over to discover that his ears are red, “Uh. Where?”

“Out…to dinner.”

Your heart slammed down into your toes and you bit your lip to stop yourself from beaming like an idiot.

“I’d love that.”

It’s the first of many dates: picnics on mild days, movie dates, cooking together, apple-picking – and sometimes it’s just getting coffee and sitting in at Paterson’s favorite corner table.

X

You write a poem, after your first kiss, and title it: “Burning up the Sun.”

His lips are plush and pliant, and you want to spend the next lifetime tracing them with your tongue.

You write a poem the day after he meets your mother. It doesn’t have a name. The last stanza reads: _‘If, perhaps, I could give you a name – it would taste like fate and breathe like hope’._

You lean into his side while finishing washing the dishes at the sink.

The smile he gives you makes the world hold its breath.

X

_I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,_

_or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries_

_the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,_

_and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose_

_from the earth lives dimly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you directly without problems or pride:_

_I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_

_except in this form in which I am not nor are you,_

_so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,_

_so close that your eyes close with my dreams._

**_(One Hundred Love Sonnets -_ ** _Pablo Neruda)_

You think this might be a dream, truthfully, as your hands slope across the planes of his stomach from beneath his white t-shirt. You’ve wanted this for so long. You burned for him, so quietly, so patiently, that it’s a little terrifying to finally have it. You’ve lost track of how many dates you’ve gone on. How many times you’ve slept over each other’s house without going past first base.

It’s a sweet agony waiting this long. Your body feels taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

His mouth is slanted over lips, his tongue caressing yours, and his hands grip your waist – tightly – as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. Your noses bump together as you move, tilting your head to the left and dragging your nails along the waistband of his slacks.

He whispers your name against your lips, “It’s been a while.” He admits, his voice quiet.

“That’s okay. We’re okay.” You reassure him, helping to pull the shirt up over his head. You lean back on your haunches, taking in each freckle and mole that dots the pale expanse of his skin, the flush that’s creeping down from his neck and dusking his collarbones. You lick your lips, unable to stop yourself from staring.

“We can stop.” He says, his fingertips dragging along your forearm and you shake your head.

“I don’t want to stop. Do you?” Your eyes trail back up to his face.

“No. It’s just – I – um –“ He huffs, struggling to get the words out, and you offer him a slow smile. You cover your hand with his and drag your thumb along his knuckles. You’ve always known he’s been better with writing down his words than speaking them.

“Laura was my first.”

“Oh.” You aren’t able to hide the surprise on your face.

“Yeah.” He nervously looks away from you, “We got together in high school, then I enlisted into the military, and we got married pretty much the second I was back.” A small, dry chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head, pulling you back into him.

“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t bring up my ex-wife - I’ll stop talking.”

“Paterson.” Your tone is fierce as you look up into his dark eyes. The bedroom is awash in a light, pale glow from the moonlight. “I like you. I _really_ like you. I want to be with you. No amount of talking about exes or the weather or whatever else will change that.”

“I really like you, too.”

Such simple words shouldn’t be able to ignite a fire in your stomach – but they do. Oh, how they do.

He kisses you again, slow, and languid, in a way that makes your body turn to putty in his hands. You loop your arms around his neck, and he lowers you down onto the mattress, his body a solid and comforting weight as he carefully presses against you. There a slight pull as he sucks your lower lip into his mouth and lets out a breathy, hot moan into your mouth when you grind your pelvis against his.

He kisses you as if time doesn’t exist.

Which, hell, maybe for him it _doesn’t_.

His lips trail down to your neck. He peppers kisses to your jaw and then uses one large hand to pull down the fabric of your dress at your shoulder and place open-mouthed kisses to the freshly exposed skin. Your hands slide upward into his hair, marveling at its softness, gently scratching your nails into his scalp. He pulls the dress down further, your bra following suit, and his mouth closes over one of your nipples. He sucks and flicks his tongue across it until it peaks – and then he dots small kisses between your breasts to the other side, tongue rolling a circle around your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth. Each flick of his tongue sends a shock of pleasure from your chest to your pussy. You grind against him again, feeling the bulge hidden in his pants, seeking some kind of relief.

Paterson hums, content, as he mouths over the slope of your breast and bites down. Not hard enough to leave a mark, you think, but enough to make your body throb with need.

You whined, arching your back into his mouth, and then his big hands are sliding along the outside of your thighs and hiking your dress up to your stomach. His fingers loop into the hem of your underwear and he rolls them down your legs. He presses his mouth to your calf, your knee, the inside of your thigh and you just stare at him – this adorable, generous, wonderful man. This man who steals your popcorn at the movies instead of getting his own, who, in all honesty, can be a little awkward and a little unsure of himself despite all his amazing qualities.

Paterson is looking up at you through heavy lids like you’re divine. As if you’re worth worshipping.

“Is this okay?” He asks, his breath on your core making you jolt.

“Yes.” You swallow, “I promise to tell you if I need to stop or slow down.”

“Okay.” He mutters and then his hot tongue is licking a stripe along your center and your eyes squeeze tight, your head throwing back into the pillows. Your muscles shudder as he laves his tongue over your pussy, lips coming to circle around your clit and sucking. You dig your hands into his hair, holding him in place, because it’s too much and also not enough. Your chest expands with each hurried breath of air as he works his lips over your sensitive flesh.

You feel the tip of his finger at your entrance and you’re thankful he’s using his mouth first because you’ve _seen_ his hands. There’s the slight stretch of the intrusion as he slowly pushes the digit into you, the wet lewd sounds of his mouth on your clit, his eyes fluttering shut as he focuses. You keen, hips canting to try and meet his slow, agonizingly slow pace.

“Please, please,” You mutter, “Patterson. Please. Faster.” You choke out your request before your desire clogs your throat. His finger pumps in and out of you, building to a steady pace, that has you moaning and sweat breaking out in a fine sheen across your chest. You know that you must look a mess. Your hair is likely frazzled, you’re still clothed for the most part – with just your dress pushed and pulled to expose whatever skin that Paterson wants to give attention to and you’re grinding and whimpering against his mouth with wanton abandon.

“Beautiful.” He says, lifting his mouth and pressing a kiss to the top of your leg, his thumb starts to rub your slickened clit and the sweet, intense pressure is so close to peaking. Your hands clutch the sheets and you blink up at him – god, he’s _pretty_.

“K-kiss me.” You whisper, voice tight with longing.

He lowers his body over yours and you hold him close by the back of his neck as your lips collide together. His tongue slides across yours and he drinks in every little sound you make. Your hips jerk against his hand and you break away, your nose squishing into the side of his face as your orgasm hits you – fast, bright, and blinding.

You cry out his name as you come down. Paterson nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, and you know he can feel your pulse jumping underneath your skin – but it doesn’t matter. You kiss the top of his head and then reach over to turn on the lamp. You want to see him. The moonlight was romantic, but you don’t want to be hidden in shadow for the first time.

Paterson helps you to undress, careful and gentle, placing kisses along the way and then he’s pulling off his slacks and boxers and your stomach flutters as tingling anticipation courses through you once more. Somewhat recovered, you let your fingers graze across his skin. You count the freckles – first with your eyes, then with your mouth. You take him in your hand, and he hisses your name.

“How are you feeling?” You ask, not moving your hand yet, waiting to get his verbal consent.

“Good. Really good. Keep going.” His hand covers yours, shows you the grip that he prefers. Paterson groans – **loud** \- when you give him the first experimental stroke. It’s delightful. You’re both on your knees on the bed, sitting across from each other, your hand pumping his cock and his hand cupping your breasts, gently pinching and rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He shamelessly moans and licks into your mouth.

“Are you ready?” He asks, one hand sliding between your thighs, “If you’re sore, we can wait.”

Your heart melts.

“I’m ready.”

You lie back onto the bed and spread your legs for him. He stares down at you, pupils blown wide, his smile slow and rich with affection. You exhale through your nose, licking your lips and reminding yourself to relax as he holds the base of his cock and nudges the tip at your entrance. Your body trembles as he slides forward and you wince for a second – Paterson stops and looks at you, expectant, ready to pull away if that’s what you want.

“Keep going.” You feel your muscles stretch as he sheathes himself into you, to the hilt, and it feels perfect. There is no other word for it. You force your eyes to open, to commit this moment to memory, the exquisite expression on Paterson’s face, the soft sheets, the hazy glow of the bedside lamp casting muted shadows on the walls.

His lips part, brow furrowed, and then he rocks his hips into you, and you can’t help the expletive that bursts forth from your lips.

He chuckles above you, “Was that good or bad?”

“Good, very, _very_ fucking good.” You reach up and pull him down so you’re chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, and your lips meet once more. Paterson’s cock slides into you, a luxurious pace that makes you start to pant and sweat, and you snake a hand between your bodies to rub your clit.

He sucks your earlobe, then kisses the spot just below it. His whisper is hot in the shell of your ear, “You’re so beautiful.” You flush at the compliment. “I want to know how you feel when you come – I want to come with you.”

“O-okay.” You hike one leg up, locking it over his hip and the angle makes you gasp. “Just…just like that. You’re doing so good. You’re – oh – fuck. You’re so good to me.”

You moan and little words of encouragement slip from your lips as Paterson thrusts into you. The movements of your fingers become erratic as you reach your climax. Your other hand flexes and tightens around his shoulder. Paterson snaps his hips into you, taking you by surprise and you let out a clipped - “Yes!”

His mouth is by your ear again and he’s – you realize, blurrily – muttering praises and adoration to you. Not just of your body, though there is _that_ , but of your mind, and your compassion, and your humor and it’s so much that you think your heart might burst.

“I’m close.” You clench around him, watching as he bites that wonderfully full lower lip of his, as he tilts his head back and exposes the strong column of his throat. He works into a faster pace, the only sounds are the slick, slapping sounds of your bodies and your moans intermingling in the hot air.

“Me too, baby. Me too.” He says and it’s the endearment that tips you over the edge. Your fingers rub tight circles around your clit one last time and suddenly you’re clenching around his thick, hard length and your back arches upward, nipples brushing his chest.

Paterson cries out your name and you feel the hot swell of him inside you as he finishes with a quiet grunt. He sags against you, pressing his forehead to yours, and then he kisses you – just once, a little peck. Your hands skate across his dampened shoulders in a soothing, gentle touch. Paterson doesn’t pull away until he’s gone soft inside you and he leaves the bedroom to get you a damp towel and some tissues.

He lets you borrow one of his shirts and you curl your body around his. You hug his middle with your arm and press your face into the middle of his back. You lie like that for several minutes and feel the drowsiness start to pull you under.

“Wait.” He mumbles, shifting, and you scoot to give him space. He rolls over to face you, cradles your hands in his and presses his lips to your conjoined hands.

“Hm?” You peek one eye open.

He says your name, in that soft, earnest way of his, and then looks away from your hands to you – “I’ve written poems about you.”

You don’t have to ask if they’re love poems. You know that they are.

And you know this because ---

“I’ve written poems about you, too, Paterson.”

X

You clutch the little book to your chest with a wide smile on your face. The line is moving quickly, at least.

Paterson doesn’t look up at first – “Hi. Who should I make this out to?”

“My husband. It’s Paterson. P-A-T-”

You don’t finish because he’s staring up at you with that smile on his face – dimples, teeth, crinkling the corner of his eyes and filled with so, so much love that it makes your heart expand like a balloon.

“Your husband must be a very lucky guy.”

“He is.” You nod, “Then again, so am I.”

In the end, he does sign it with a special note.

It reads:

_She was radiant, like a supernova birthing before my very eyes_

_She was hope in springtime, she was ice cream sticking to fingers, and tea-too-hot_

_burning your tongue with words unsaid_

_And I am so lucky to have her._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it folks! I hope you enjoyed. I LOVE WRITING SOFT FLUFFY CUTE STUFF.
> 
> :) feel free to lemme know what u thought about it <3


End file.
